Death,
I howl at the moon in protest of you.
Do you hear my plea?
Save a few more breaths for me.
Do you enjoy it—
watching us beg for an exception?
I do not care about Heaven.
Not asking for immortality.
Just enough time to see
little Mae grow up,
maybe have a kid of my own.
Let me show her
the Aspen leaves of Durango
in Autumn;
the kindness the diner waitress shows
to each tired trucker she knows
by name;
the depth of Tolstoy and Van Gogh,
showing the beauty in disaster;
the sound of her grandmama’s laughter.
Is that too much to ask for?
Let me wade in the water just a bit longer,
and then I’ll go.
I promise.
SEEDS 